Freedom is at the edge of a sheet of paper,
at the tip of a rifle without a telescope, at the tip
of a blank cartridge. freedom is a strap
that holds you like a poet or a hare under the
useless gold of the Moon where walk two lonely men
at the time of clicks and condemnations.
at the time of thrones and uncertainties love
protests with a weapon otherwise repressive
that the bullet lost in Africa and that howls
mocks the insistence of the clouds and lifts
the innermost beings of the men resiscovered in this park
that is the magma of precarious insults and aborted orgasms.
at the time in which a soiled asia bitten but not extinct
by the clasp of weapons and their morose teeth
at a time in which the empty cracked wall of the Earth
dishevelled at its nodule where god meansured his death,
at a time of interstellar cycles and of wildlife
of harsh kiff, of silver herring and nimbus of napalm.
che guevara rearms the ounce of proletarian blood
captured by the yankee in the streets and pulverizes
with his dreams and his berets slugging
the militant misery of the americas
for whom combat is in that ounce of blood
lost like a warhead in the hell of the bystander!
at the time the commoner summoned to obliterate
this prison from which issues the cry of the islanders:
masks chained to the spear and to the rifle
shed the rude life of glairy suns
in Africa concentration camps:
freedom is at the edge of a shet of paper.
at the tip of a rifle where black and white
yellowed by a bible forged in coblat
strike at the enemy in his vaults and gather up
the cancerous remains of liberties denied,
dirtied bruised but laughing at the engineers
of calm death in hallucinated cables.
(translated by Georgina Jimenez) 1971